The Newest Winchester
by reddhede
Summary: AU - Sam and Dean have a younger sister. Months after a traumatic incident, Dean must help her work through her fear and accept her imminent motherhood.
1. Chapter 1

Dean had always loved Sammy. They were brothers; been to hell and back together, literally. Yes, Dean loved his little brother, but he absolutely adored his baby sister. Dean and Melissa Winchester were cut from the same cloth, equal parts heroically passionate and humblingly self-loathing. They fought for the best of the world only to see the worst in themselves. It was tragic, but it meant they understood each other.

Which is why when Dean saw her doubled over on the couch, heard her muffled cry of pain, and she told him to shove off, he listened. The hunters had caught a case, but there was no way Dean would leave her alone in that condition, so he told Sammy to take it on without him. Sam did not have the same reservations about leaving; he and Melissa had a more tenuous relationship. She, too, had decided to go to law school and have a normal life. Only, unlike her brother, she had actually succeeded, and he resented her for it.

And so it was just the two of them sitting on the couch, both pretending to watch tv. Every once in a while he'd hear her breath hitch; he'd glance over and she'd have the pillow in a vice, trembling slightly from the effort of suppressing the groan that was so desperate to escape her lips. But then it would pass and they would both resume the charade. The hours ticked by and Melissa got more and more uncomfortable. They were about halfway through a season of Law and Order when she yawned, though it came out as more of a wince.

"I'm kinda tired. I think I'll try and get some shut-eye," she said, massaging her slightly distended stomach. The motion was not lost on her brother.

"You sure? If you go to bed now, you'll never find out if… the guy… did… the thing." Neither of them had actually been paying attention to the crime show.

"Oh I'm sure the guy didn't do the thing. It's always the other guy, the guy that they were sure would _never_ do the thing, doing the thing," she stated with confidence. Slowly and with great effort, she hoisted herself onto shaky legs, Dean's hands hovering unseen an inch behind in case she fell.

She hadn't taken two steps before she inhaled sharply and crouched over, one arm curled around her midsection and the other clutching the arm of the couch for support. Dean was by her side in an instant, but she frowned and shrugged off his help. "I'm fine, Dean. I just… need to rest. Go watch your show." She scurried off to her room without looking back at her helpless brother.

Dean tried to watch the show, he really did. And he tried to do research, make some dinner, clean his weapons. Even the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties couldn't hold his attention. Every time he would begin to settle down, thinking Mel had finally found some rest, a soft moan would crawl to his ears from the small crack at the base of her door.

Several times he knocked. She would grumble, "How the hell am I supposed to sleep when you keep knocking on the damn door," so Dean would go back to trying to keep himself busy, then hear another groan and start the whole process over again.

It was three in the morning when he heard an honest-to-god scream and decided he'd had enough. He busted down her door and found her curled up in the fetal position on the floor of her bathroom. The normally pristine tile was painted with a horrifying palette of pinks and reds, and Mel was writhing around in it, unable to breathe and eyes wild with pain. She clutched desperately at her stomach while her whole body shook uncontrollably, neither able to quell nor endure the unfamiliar pain that held it captive.

Dean flew over to her, unsure what to do or how to help. He knelt by her side and lifted her gently into his lap. She twisted his shirt in her fist and panted into his chest as he cradled her. As the pain subsided, she seemed to come back to herself, realizing what she had given away in a moment of weakness. She released him from her death grip and pushed herself out of his embrace. In her haste, she stood up too quickly and became lightheaded, closing her eyes and bracing herself against the vanity until her blood pressure stabilized.

"S-sorry about the mess. I just- I just need some sleep," she mumbled without conviction, looking anywhere but into her brother's eyes. At this highly unlikely solution, Dean sprang up from the floor and pointed an accusatory finger in her direction.

"You need to go to a damn hospital!" he shouted, anger borne out of fear and concern.

"No! I'm fine. I swear," she pleaded, eyes darting around him to the doorway, looking for an escape route. He folded his arms across his chest and repositioned himself to stubbornly fill up the whole exit.

"Like hell you are." She pressed her lips together painfully tight and he sighed, leaning heavily against the door frame. "Look, what happened in Vermont –"

"Don't," she warned. "Nothing happened, alright?"

"It's just… if what I think happened, happened," she narrowed her eyes at him and he held his hands up in surrender, "then this," he gestured to her shaky, pallor form, "isn't just gonna go away, okay? So either admit what that son of a bitch did to you and own up to what this really is, or just keep pretending that this is PMS and I'm taking you to the damn hospital anyway!" He placed his hands on his hips and pursed his lips, waiting.

As he finished delivering his little ultimatum, Mel's breathing began to quicken and the panicked look returned to her eyes. "Dean –" she began, pitching forward. He hooked a steady arm around her waist just before she could collapse.

"Whoa, hey, easy there," he soothed as she hung her arms around his neck and leaned into him. She rested her head against his chest, the vice-like band around her stomach becoming impossibly tight until she finally cried out in anguish. He rubbed small circles on her back, surprised and horrified by the impenetrability of the taught muscle against his strong hands, until the pain subsided.

She gazed up into his determined emerald eyes. "At least- let me shower first?" She'd meant for it to be a demand, but in her weakness it came out as more of a question. He considered it, then gave one tight nod.

"Be quick. And… sit down or something. I don't want you fallin' down, knockin' your teeth out, hmm?" She nodded and he let her have some privacy, though he hovered right outside the door.

She stepped under the warm shower and watched the pink water disappear down the drain until it turned clear. Twice she found herself on hands and knees to weather a debilitating contraction in the five minutes it took to shower, and it had taken every ounce of willpower for Dean not to jump right on in there every time she let out an muffled groan. When she exited, she noticed that he had cleaned up most of the blood on the floor, taken her soiled garments, and laid out a clean towel and fresh clothes for her to put on.

He had to practically carry her to the car – both because of her reluctance and because the pressure in her abdomen seemed to be constant now. He gingerly placed her in the passenger seat and she immediately curled in on herself, facing out the window and away from the one forcing her to come to terms with her situation. The nearest hospital was 30 minutes away. Mel seemed to make herself smaller and smaller, and with every desperate whimper Dean's foot pressed a little harder on the gas pedal.

All things considered, they made record time, but it was still all too close. When they pulled up, the EMTs carted his sister away faster than Dean could get out of the car. Taken away from the safety and familiarity of the bunker, her fear had been building; but when they whisked her away, cutting her off from her family, the only semblance of comfort she had left, she became absolutely hysterical – thrashing and screaming and demanding that they leave her the hell alone.

After some choice words with the parking attendant, Dean followed the commotion until he came upon the delivery room they'd wheeled Mel into. They were trying to force her legs into some torturous-looking contraption, but she was kicking and rolling and doing everything in her power to try and stay in control of her body.

Then she let out a blood-curdling scream that stopped the foot traffic in the hall. They seized the opportunity to pin down her arms and legs while she was paralyzed with pain. Her back arched off the bed and Dean was sickened by the scene's uncanny resemblance to an exorcism. They were terrifying her, and probably doing more harm than good.

"What the hell do you think you're doing? You're hurting her!" he yelled at the struggling hospital staff.

"We need-" grunt, "her –" he pinned down one of her ankles, "to calm down!" the doctor growled in a very un-calming tone. All the monitors in the room were beeping furiously and erratically.

"Get your damn hands off her!" Dean shouted, pushing aside the abrasive physician and a harried nurse. Mel immediately flipped to her side and began to work against the other two holding her down, who quickly lost their battle with her powerful flailing limbs. She scurried to the very top of the bed and tucked her knees up as high as they would go with her protruding belly in the way.

Her breathing slowed, but her eyes still darted around quickly like a trapped animal. Dean approached her slowly. He lowered himself down on the edge of the bed, facing her but careful not to touch her.

"Mel, you gotta listen to me. Wheelin' you outta there alone like that, trying to pin you down, that was a dick move," he said, gazing pointedly around the room. "But they're just trying to help. Remember? Vermont –" The word elicited the reaction he was hoping for. Momentarily her anger was greater than her fear and she began to berate him for bringing it up again, but then her hands flew to her stomach and she looked up to the ceiling, wheezing in ragged breaths through clenched teeth. "Can we do this without the torture chamber?" he asked the room, pointing to the stirrups at the end of the bed.

"If you think she can control herself, then yes, I suppose," the doctor he'd told off earlier snapped, tugging in annoyance at the wrinkles his crisp white lab coat had incurred. Dean made a mental note to swipe the doc's credit card later, maybe charge a few thousand dirty movie rentals to it, before remembering his sister, who was slowly sliding back down onto the bed, shaky legs no longer able to hold her up and out of reach. Her eyes were pleading as they locked on his. He held out his hand and she grabbed on like it was the only thing holding her to the earth. Maybe it was. "Don't push yet; I have to check your progress first," the doctor chastised as if she'd already disobeyed his orders.

"Just breathe," Dean coached as the pain worsened. A nurse tentatively slid one of Mel's bent legs to the side, a question in her eyes. Mel looked like she wanted to kick out again, so Dean brought her focus back to him. "In, and out. In, out. You're doin' so great, baby girl." He hadn't called her that since they were kids.

"Mel, is it?" the obnoxious doctor questioned.

"Yes," Dean responded quickly, before she could spit out an obscenity at him.

"Well, Mel – how far along are you? Have you had any prenatal care? When did the contractions start?" The rapid-fire questions were all too much for Mel, who hadn't even admitted to herself yet that she was, in fact, pregnant. Another contraction came before she could answer and she squeezed her eyes shut, willing it all to be a terrible dream.

"What's with the third degree?" Dean asked in her defense.

"I need to know what we're dealing with here." Mel whined and grunted and rolled her hips around on the bed, unable to relieve the tremendous pressure bearing down between her legs. "Guess that will have to wait – you're fully dilated! Baby's right there, Mel. Go ahead and push."

Mel froze, snapping her knees together and sobbing. "I can't. This isn't happening. Dean, make it stop!" The fear in her voice broke his heart, but there was no way he could do this for her.

"You know I can't. It'll all be over soon, I promise. Just do what the doctor says." Her abdomen went rigid as another contraction started. When the nurses again pulled her knees apart, she cried harder, unable and unwilling to hold her breath and bear down.

"Come on, Mel, your baby is waiting to meet you!" the doctor said cheerfully. Mel's eyes were desperate as she pleaded with her brother.

"Read the situation, doc. Jesus," Dean growled, annoyed that he was making things worse. Mel was breathing hard, the worry wrinkles on her forehead causing sweat to streak down her nose. He placed a tender kiss over the creases, cupped his hand under her chin and brushed the tears off her cheek with his thumb. "You can do this," he assured her.

Her lower lip trembled and she shook her head. "I can't," she breathed.

"I ain't never seen you run from a fight," he goaded her. Pain that went beyond physical flashed behind her eyes.

"If I had, maybe I wouldn't be here," she whispered so softly he almost didn't hear. She groaned as the overwhelming tightness once again built up in her abdomen. She screamed and cursed and panted, everything except push.

"The baby's heart rate is dropping. If she can't get the baby out, we're going to have to go in," the doctor warned. Dean didn't know what he meant by that, but it didn't sound pleasant.

"Please, Mel. I know you can do this." She didn't seem to be hearing him and he was getting desperate. "If you want, after this is over, we can go back and pretend like nothing ever happened. No Vermont, no hospital, no baby." He doubted that either of them would ever be able to forget this, but he knew she'd try her damnedest anyway. She considered his words carefully, and when the stabbing pressure returned to her aching pelvis, she gave a reluctant nod.

"Alright, push, Mel!" the doctor ordered, much to both of the Winchesters' annoyance. Even so, she could not stop her body from responding to the innate instinct to bear down. The nurses tried to count her down, but she refused to listen to anyone but her brother.

"You're doin' so great. So proud of you." He kept whispering praises and encouragements, telling her to be strong and to work with her body instead of against it. Even though she was in greater pain, playing an active role in her labor seemed to be good for her morale. When the doctor announced he could see the head, Dean saw the panic return to his sister's eyes. "It's okay. Just means it's almost over."

She had started to push again, but quickly released all the air she'd been holding in an uncontrollable wail. "Burning!" was the only coherent word she managed to get out. Dean looked wildly at the nurse, who confirmed that for some godforsaken reason, that was considered normal. Well he had been trapped in hell for 40 years and never heard so much pain behind a sound.

"Keep pushing, Mel. Almost over." At least he hoped it was. Mel's constant agony had put him so on edge that it was a miracle he had thus far resisted the urge to stab anyone with all the sharp, pointy medical equipment lying around.

The doctors and nurses kept glancing nervously over at the fetal heart monitor, but Dean kept his focus on Mel. Her scream had condensed into a series of strangled whines that escaped her clenched jaw on each exhale. She was crowning, the nurses said. Stretching. Dean shuddered at the thought.

Mel pounded her fist against the hard bed in frustration. "What. The. Hell!" she growled.

"What? What's wrong?" Dean asked frantically.

"'s going back in!" she exclaimed. What was going back in? He didn't want to think about it too hard.

"You just have to push through the contraction next time," the doctor said. "Don't be afraid of it, just go." The comment earned a glare from both Winchesters.

Mel groaned as another contraction started and Dean turned to her. "This is the one, alright? You can do it." She looked like she might start crying again.

"I'm scared, Dean." She sounded so young, so child-like. He wanted nothing more than to take her pain away; to bear her emotional scars and return her innocence. How much simpler it was when he could just beat the crap out of a cheating boyfriend or blackmail a bitchy classmate.

"I know, baby girl. I know. But I can't do this for you. I wish I could, but I'll be right here the whole time." He hadn't even finished speaking before the urge to bear down became too great. She pushed and screamed, then gasped and began to let up. "No, no, no," Dean pressed, "you gotta push through it."

"Nnnngh!" she grunted, failing to put any momentum behind the action. "Ahhhh-hoo-hoo," she panted in quick breaths, once again releasing the push.

"Pushpushpush," Dean pleaded, desperate for her pain to be over. She was shaking her head, precipitating a steady stream tears onto his arm, but he could see the quick, concentrated tightening of her abdominal wall as she managed to push between cries.

"What are you doing? Get off, get OFF!" Mel screamed at the doctor, trying to push herself further back on the bed by her heels. Dean looked over to see that the man had his hand pressed between her legs, as if holding the baby inside her.

"I'm applying counterpressure," he explained, as if that would mean anything to a couple that clearly had no prior experience with childbirth. "Your pushing was too effective, and I didn't want you to tear," he elaborated, making what was almost a compliment into a bitter accusation. Dean winced and his core clenched involuntarily; his sister was literally ripping in half. "I just want you to breathe through the next contraction; don't push unless you absolutely must, not until the head's out."

First they don't want her to do anything; then they want her to push; then she pushes too well and they want her to stop; then they want her to push again. If Dean was this frustrated, he couldn't imagine how Mel must have felt; she started muttering obscenities, but soon all her concentration was required in an attempt to override her body's natural instincts.

She was gripping Dean's hand so hard that he swore he heard bones crack; Mel's ability to sit idly by and ride out the visceral waves of torture only lasted a few seconds before she was scrunching up her face and holding her breath again.

"Uh uh, no. Look at me, baby girl. Breathe. Breathe!" he practically shouted at her, giving the hand that still held tightly in his grasp a desperate shake.

"Ha… ha… haaaaa…" she exhaled in punctuated gasps. She relinquished her brother's grip and brought both palms to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut. For an unbearable 20 seconds or so – seemingly an eternity, and easily the worst 20 seconds of his life thus far – Mel endured the persecution naturally inflicted by her own body, face contorted in a mask of silent suffering.

Having exhausted her last ounce of willpower, Mel let out one last choked cry before slumping slightly in relief. Dean chanced a look down and saw a round, bloodied head poking out from beneath the cotton cover. He was equal parts awestruck and disgusted.

"Hardest part's over. One more push and you'll –" the nurse was cut off by Dean's warning glare.

The fetal heart monitor began to spike wildly and the doctor sounded too calm as he stated, "You need to push, Mel. Now. One big one."

The ordeal was taking its toll, and Mel was already the kind of tired that settled in your bones and caused you to ache from the inside out. But when the nurses pulled her knees back, she curled in on herself once again, bearing down for all she was worth. And then it was over. Mel gasped and threw back her head, collapsing on the bed as the child was pulled from her body.

"It's a girl!" someone announced. Mel was shaking with silent sobs.

"Would you like to hold your daughter?" someone else asked.

"NO!" she screeched, throwing her arm over her eyes. "I don't want to see it!" she cried. The hospital staff balked at her, unsure how to react.

Dean noted the intense silence. "Why isn't she crying?" he asked the nurse holding the newborn. That seemed to snap them out of it. Everyone began rushing around and the baby was quickly taken out of sight. "Where are you taking her?" Dean demanded. The doctor was reluctant to answer the man prone to violent outbursts.

"She's being taken to the NICU. She's premature and her lungs aren't fully developed. I'm assuming that there was no prenatal care," he said accusatorily, "so we'll have to do a full blood panel. You can go with her if you like," he said as an afterthought.

Dean stared at Mel. She wouldn't look at anyone, wouldn't respond when he spoke to her, pulled away when he tried to touch her. She may have needed him, but she certainly didn't want him, so he decided to give her some space to process everything and took off down the hall after his niece.

It was several hours before Dean returned to Mel's room, looking 10 years older than he had the night before. She was lying on her side, eyes unfocused and unresponsive. He sighed, rubbing a calloused hand over his stubbled chin. "You can't do this, Mel. You can't just shut down." No response. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared toward the same blank wall. "I know what happened in Vermont. I know what that psychopath did to you. Every day, I hate myself for not being able to protect you from that." He glanced at his little sister, who had somehow managed to retreat even further in on herself. "And you dealt with it the way we Winchesters seem to deal with everything – stuff it down deep inside; act like it didn't happen while it slowly eats away at you until there's nothing left." He sighed, as much from his own demons as the ones he was trying to get her to deal with. "You don't wanna talk about how he raped you, fine." She visibly flinched at the word. "Wanna not take care of yourself, ignore every sign that you might be having a kid? I get it, Mel, I really do." And he did, because he probably would have done the same thing. They were the same, but that didn't mean they were always right. "But that little girl out there? She didn't get a choice in this. She ain't got no past. She's fighting for her _life_, and she needs her _mother_." Another flinch, then she resumed her catatonic indifference. Dean sighed. "Doctor said babies do better if the mother holds 'em. Just… think about it."

He felt bad for the kid, but honestly he couldn't blame his sister for her reaction. Her most painful memories – emotionally, then physically – inexorably linked and resulting in a new life that would be a constant reminder of the worst moments of her life. So he went back to the NICU alone.

After her brother left, Mel broke down – utterly and completely. All the guilt and shame that she shouldn't feel over what had happened to her, all the fear and anger and pain. She let go just a little and the floodgates opened. She clutched at the handrails of the bed, riding out wave after wave of misery, each small catharsis lightening the heaviness that her heart constantly bore.

What could have been hours, minutes, days later, Mel slowly, tentatively pulled herself upright. The shift in position caused her to wince from the unusual soreness, but it quickly passed. She shuffled through the door and down the hall before she lost her courage.

The scene through the large glass windows made her knees weak and her legs could no longer support her. Dean – her fearless big brother who fought monsters and the devil himself – was crouched over a clear plastic incubator. He had one hand inside, lightly curling the tiniest arm she'd ever seen around his index finger and a single perfect tear rolling down his cheek.

She slid slowly down the wall and laid down on the floor, head toward the open door. Once she got her own breathing under control, she could hear him speaking softly to her daughter.

"You made it this far, kiddo – you can't quit on me now. You're a fighter, just like your mom," he choked, holding back a sob. Mel crawled back up to a seated position. She bit her lip and pulled herself back up to the window.

Her feet led her around the corner, through the NICU door, and to the other side of the plastic dome. When she looked up Dean was already staring at her. She shuddered a breath, gave a tentative smile, and reached in to hold her daughter's hand.

Mel didn't know what she expected to feel when she made contact with her baby for the first time, but it certainly wasn't the unbridled joy and love that bloomed in her heart. Her skin was slightly translucent and she had breathing tubes in her nose, but Mel thought she was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. "Hi, baby girl," she choked before dissolving into a blubbering mess. Dean came around beside her, helping to hold her up on once again weak knees.

He kissed her temple and whispered, "She's gonna be fine, Mel."

"Of course she is," she proclaimed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "She's a Winchester, damnit."


	2. Chapter 2

Melissa Winchester had come to terms with her motherhood, but she still had her dark days. She would curl up on her bed and refuse to speak or to eat. The nurses said such post-partum depression was normal, but Dean knew it was more than that. He also knew that the nurses were full of crap when they kept her under lock and key for round-the-clock psych evaluation. He was pissed at them for trying to sugar coat the situation – he saw how quickly she could tailspin – but more than that, he was grateful that someone was forcing her to deal with it.

They didn't let him sit in on her therapy sessions – whether by her rules or theirs, he didn't know – but he had his own sit-down with the shrink a few days after they'd ruled her "stable enough" to be on her own. He was immediately put off by the talk-to-you-like-he's-your-best-friend act.

"So… Dean, is it?" the psychiatrist asked, his overly soothing tone putting Dean on edge.

"Uh, yeah," Dean responded, rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact.

"Well, Dean, I understand that Melissa will be released into your care. Is that correct?"

"Yeah, she'll be stayin' with me and my brother for a while. We'll take care of her. 'Til she gets back on her feet, you know?" he replied, trying to make the whole situation sound casual.

The doctor frowned. "I'm not sure that's the best idea, Dean." The hunter's jaw clenched; he hated that the psychiatrist was over-using his name. It was some sort of manipulation tactic, the kind con artists and politicians used. "She's in a very… delicate state at the moment. If she becomes too dependent on you and your fam-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there, Freud," Dean interrupted, holding up his hand. "You've been with her, what, three days? I've known this girl my whole life. I know what she needs, and right now, she needs her family," he said definitively, glaring at the man for good measure.

The doctor frowned and pushed his glasses back up his nose. "Well, I can't force you to take my advice, Dean," he did it again. "And you're right, you have known her longer. But _this_ Melissa Winchester – the girl who was assaulted, sexually abused, living in denial and depression – my guess is, you don't know her as well as you think you do." Dean crossed his arms over his chest, not bothering to dignify that with a response. The doctor sighed. "She lost a great deal that day." Dean cringed slightly; he still felt partially – alright, mostly – responsible for that loss. "Through her acceptance of her daughter, she has gained some of it back. But if you allow her to lean too heavily on your support, she will never learn how to be the independent, strong, open person I know you so desperately want back."

Dean's breathing became labored. The doctor patted him on the shoulder and left him to stew in his own thoughts. On the one hand, he wanted his baby sister back. He wanted her to feel safe and loved and comforted in that she'd never have to be alone in this. On the other hand, he saw the panic behind her eyes that seemed to constantly simmer near the surface, always threatening to bubble over again.

His feet carried him to the NICU, and what he saw made his decision for him. His niece, whom she had decided to name Grace, was screaming inside her little plastic bubble. Mel was curled up in a ball on the rocking chair, palms jammed against her ears and tears streaking down her face. Screw the shrink – if he knew half of what he thought he did about Mel's life, he'd check his damn self into the loony bin.

He ran into the room, spoke briefly to the on-call nurse, and led his broken sister back to her own room. She didn't say a word about what had happened, but silent tears still fell from her eyes as she drifted off to sleep.

Once her breathing had evened out, Dean wiped the wetness from her cheeks. "Don't you worry about a thing, baby girl. You're comin' home soon," he said, kissing the top of her head and heading back to the Impala.

Both Grace and Melissa had a little longer on their hospital sentence, so Dean busied himself with buying up every baby item they might need – a white crib, a jungle-themed bouncer seat, four different kinds of bottles, diapers, and enough toys for Grace's next six birthdays – making what used to be a hunter's fortress look more like a daycare center.

Just as Dean finished setting up the little teddy bear plush swing he couldn't resist getting, he heard the front door close.

"What the hell?" he heard Sam call from the other side of the bunker. Crap. He hadn't told his brother a damn thing about what was going on.

"Heya, Sammy," Dean said a little too genially, jogging over to greet him.

"Dean, why is there a bunch of baby crap in our house?" Sam rightfully asked, setting down on the table – one of the few remaining cleared surfaces – the bags and weapons he'd taken with him on the hunting trip.

Dean clapped his hands once and rubbed them together. "You like kids, dontcha Sammy?" he said; though his smile was innocent, his eyes were guilty as sin.

Sam's expression darkened. "Melissa?" he questioned, though he already knew the answer. Dean nodded and he sighed heavily. "I knew it. I knew she was pregnant," he began mumbling, pacing back and forth around the table and occasionally tripping over the haphazardly strewn 'baby crap.' He paused and gripped the back of a chair, leaning into it. "How is she?"

Dean shrugged. "As good as you might expect, given the circumstances."

"And the… baby?" Mel had denied it so well and for so long that the word felt odd rolling off his tongue. He swallowed and gave his head a little shake, trying to come to terms with the drastic turn of events their lives had just taken. They had faced the apocalypse – twice – but this still seemed more treacherous; there was more at stake.

"Little girl. She came a little early, was having some problems breathing, things like that…" Dean trailed off, trying not to sound as anxious and worried as he really was.

"Is she…?" Sam couldn't seem to form full sentences in the wake of learning he was now an uncle. He had had his suspicions, but the news still came as a surprise. Like when you dared your best friend to streak across the lawn – you knew there was some chance it would happen, but you didn't _really_ think it would.

"Yeah, she'll pull through. Kid's tough as nails." Dean paused, looking down at the floor and pursing his lips. "They're both having a rough go of it, Sammy. I think it's best if they, you know, stay here for a while." When Sam didn't respond, he looked up. He could see the conflicting emotions cross his brother's face.

"Dean, I know you want to help her, but do you really think this is any place – any life – to raise a kid?"

"Yeah, actually, I do," Dean responded defensively. "I know you two aren't bffs, but we can't just kick her to the curb. She needs her family right now." He crossed his arms over his chest, almost pouting.

"I'm not disagreeing with you, I just… Our family doesn't have the best track record for… dealing with our crap." They both grimaced; emotionally, they were dysfunctional at best. "And as you know, you can only keep shoving it down for so long before it starts eating away at you." Dean didn't disagree. "I'm not exactly thrilled about her living in denial for so long, but whatever, she can deal with things however she wants," he waved his hand dismissively, not wanting to open that can of worms again.

"Damn straight," Dean agreed, since he dealt with things in the same extremely unhealthy way.

Sam rolled his eyes. "But it's not just her anymore. She's responsible for another human being now."

"Yeah...?" Dean concurred, but his inflection went up at the end like a question.

Sam's eyes widened and he held his hands up like the answer was so obvious he shouldn't have to say it. "So… she can't just go all suicidal whenever it gets to be too much!" Dean flinched at the accusation, though it wasn't unfounded. Several weeks after Vermont, he had found Mel curled up in the fetal position in bed, sobbing and twirling a bottle of pills between her palms. Thinking back on it, it was probably the night the possibility – and likelihood – of pregnancy first dawned on her.

"Jesus, Sammy, she was never gonna do it!" he yelled with more conviction than he felt. Sam raised an eyebrow. "She'll be fine," he growled, turning to make his way to the garage. "And she's staying here!" he called over his shoulder.

It was two full weeks before all the Winchesters made it back under one roof together; Sam quickly decided it was a good time to bury himself in research, though he did participate in the occasional bottle feeding. Grace was still small, but healthy and growing. Melissa, on the other hand, looked like she was getting worse. Dark circles shadowed her eyes and she was thinner than she'd ever been.

A few days after their official homecoming, Sam was back out on another hunt and Dean had run a brief errand to the convenience store – they were out of milk. He returned to find Grace alone on a blanket in the middle of the floor, screaming and fidgeting wildly. Mel had curled up on the couch, wide eyes petrified of the writhing creature she was supposed to innately know how to soothe, and biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood.

After that, she was barely functioning for almost a week. Sam was spending as little time as possible in the bunker; Dean decided not to tell him about the incident, but figured he shouldn't leave them alone anymore. Dean understood, to some extent, and he knew he'd have to show her some tough love someday soon – but that was not his strong suit and today was not that day.

Grace was wailing from within her crib, her mother once again unable – or unwilling – to rouse herself from bed. Dean was leaning over her, playing with her tiny hands and feet, trying to get her focus on him and off of whatever was upsetting her. "Hey Jude," he crooned, adorably off-key, "don't make it bad." He smiled over-animatedly and she stopped crying, but her bottom lip was still quivering uncertainly. It had been nearly 30 years since Dean had held a baby, but it was like riding a bike. He gently scooped up his niece, careful to support her head, and began bouncing and swaying back and forth. "Take a sad song," he kissed her forehead, "and make it betteeer," he continued.

Grace gazed at her uncle with interest; her eyes shared his earthy green hue, and he was equally mesmerized by her delicate features. He continued to mumble and hum the song as the infant drifted back to sleep. He had forgotten how sore you could get, moving just enough to be soothing but not enough to be jarring; it kept your body at awkward angles for long periods of time and made him feel older than he was. Although, living the way he had, he often felt much older than his 35 years.

He heard the front door close and quickly put Grace back in her crib before his less-than-quiet brother woke her up. "Are you putting her down again?" Sam spoke at half volume, though his deep timbre could never truly be considered whispering. Dean held a finger to his lips, face expressing annoyed incredulity, before gesturing for Sam to follow him into another room. "That's, like, the third time today," Sam chastised, already weary of his sister's mood swings.

"Hey, she's been through a lot, okay? Least I can do is walk the kid around, stick a pacifier in her mouth." Sam gave him an oh-is-that-all-you've-been-doing look. "Maybe feed her once or twice. Change her diaper."

"Exactly. Dean, you can't keep doing this."

"Hey, I've seen that doe-eyed look you get when you hold her," Dean said in defense. It was true; Sam's constant anxiety over the whole situation seemed to soften whenever the little one was nestled into the crook of his elbow, making the already oversized Winchester look comically giant.

"Yeah, I've held her. You've held her. Hell, even Cas has held her, but I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen Melissa hold her," he accused.

"She'll bounce back, Sammy. She just needs some time," Dean pleaded, though the words of the psychiatrist flashed through his mind.

"Well now is the perfect time," Sam interjected, knowing that would be his brother's response. "We caught a case. Haunting, upstate New York." The corners of Dean's mouth pulled down slightly as he was about to protest. Sam held up his hand. "She's got to do this on her own at some point," he reasoned.

Dean's brows furrowed. "Yeah, but does it have to be this soon? It's only been a few weeks for Christ's sake."

"We let her pretend Vermont didn't happen and she wound up in the psych ward," Sam argued. He had a point, even if it was only for a few days.

"She's not pretending this isn't happening, but she needs us right now, and damn if I'm gonna take away the only thing keepin' that girl together," Dean said stubbornly. He always did have a soft spot for his baby sister.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, frustrated at having to have the same argument again. He decided to try a different tactic. "You're always saying how strong she is, Dean."

"She is strong," he pouted.

"Yeah, okay. Then _she_ needs to believe it, which is never going to happen as long as we're here indulging every whim of hers." Dean frowned; he thought calling her bouts of depression 'whims' was a hell of an understatement. "Being a parent is a full time job. Even when you don't feel like doing it. Hell, especially then."

Dean looked at his feet and kicked at the carpet. "Dad managed as a part-time parent," he mumbled, unwilling to concede the point.

"Yeah, and look how we turned out," Sam countered. Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother, muttering some less-than-appropriate suggestions about where he could shove it, before sighing in defeat and walking toward Mel's darkened bedroom.

"Knock knock," Dean said unnecessarily, as he was also physically knocking on her door. A low groan came from inside and the outline of her shadow seemed to sink deeper into the bed. He perched on the corner of her bed, trying to assess how bad this particular episode was.

Her eyes were open and the glass of water he'd left beside her bed was mostly gone, so she must have been alright. Damn. Couldn't use that as an excuse. "Hey, baby girl," he said in an inherently gentler tone. He'd taken to calling her by the old nickname since their trip to the hospital.

She gave him a weak smile and pushed herself into a half-seated position. "Hey, Dean," she croaked, mouth dry from sleep. "Sam," she acknowledged her other brother, who was still standing by the door, arms crossed. She frowned, sensing the unusual tension between her two brothers. "What's wrong?" she asked, then her eyes went wide. "Is it Grace? Is she-"

"Nonono," Dean was quick to quell her fear. "Gracie's fine." She wrinkled her nose at Dean's constant need to cute-ify everyone's names. "It's just… Sam and I… well, there's a case." He waited for the anxiety, the panic, but Melissa's eyes were still blank, uncomprehending of the implications of what Dean had just said. He blew out a breath and rubbed at the stubble on his chin, a tell-tale sign that he was stressed. "Gotta go gank a ghost." He waited; still nothing. "And someone's gotta stay here. With Grace."

Understanding sparked behind her eyes, followed immediately by the anxiety he'd anticipated. "Please don't leave. I- I can't do this by myself," Melissa begged, folding her knees under her and leaning close enough to her brother to clutch at his forearm.

Dean gave clenched his jaw and looked to Sam, wanting nothing more than to give in to his overprotective instincts. Sam cocked an eyebrow and waited for his brother to cave. "Of course you can," he said through his teeth. "We'll only be gone for a few days." He tried to sound confident, but she looked like she might start crying. Dean sighed, pulling out of her grasp to hold his head in his hands. "We'll have Cas look in on you, okay? But people are dying. We need to do this," he finished, and she wasn't sure if he was talking about them or her.

When they loaded up the Impala, Dean slipped in behind the wheel but didn't start her up. Sam opened the passenger door and took his seat. "You're doing the right thing, Dean," he assured his brother, who was attempting to take deep breaths through his painfully tight jaw.

Dean closed his eyes, but he could still hear the bawling on the other side of the door; he actually hoped it was Grace. "Damnit!" he yelled, slamming his palms against the steering wheel before turning the key and revving the engine, though it couldn't quite drown out the high pitched squeals.

It took several hours of quiet country road, but Dean did eventually loosen up. That's when his phone rang; Sam snatched it before Dean could answer.

"Quit it! Give me that phone! I knew we shouldn'ta left! Somethin's wrong!" Dean swerved along the road, trying to wrestle his phone from his hulk of a brother.

"She's fine, Dean! It's only been a few hours." There was a beat, then Dean tried to smack the device out of his hand and it fell to the floor. Dean dove for it – almost careening them off the road – but Sam kicked it away until he once again had a handle on it. "The bunker is demon-proof, angel-proof, and baby-proof. Plus, Cas should be there by now. How much danger could she possibly be in?"

Dean returned his brother's smug look with a glare. He muttered some colorful obscenities and tried to convince himself that maybe, for once, the world wasn't crumbling around them. He really should have known better.


	3. Chapter 3

"Shh, shh. It's okay." Melissa tried to soothe her screaming daughter, but it was as if she could sense the anxiety and fear in her mother's voice. Her demeanor wasn't much better; she had never really held a baby before having one, and her bouncing motions were causing more problems than they were solving. She had tried feeding Grace to stop her crying – which it did, however briefly – but she had forgotten to burp the child and the jarring up-and-down motion caused her to spit up everything she'd managed to take in.

Grace was back to an empty stomach and, coupled with the unpleasant aftertaste of her reflux, was now even more upset than before. It was all too much. Mel put her back in her crib, still wailing and hungry, and retreated to her room. The smell permeating from her soaked shirt began to trigger her own gag reflex, so she pulled it over her head and tossed it across the room. She curled up in bed, desperately praying that the crying would stop. When it didn't, she tried muffling the sound with pillows, turned on the radio, but nothing could drown out the cries of her helpless child.

Mel sat cross-legged on the bed, hugging a pillow and staring at her phone like an alcoholic at a bottle of whiskey. Several times she reached for it, but kept drawing her hand back. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths; she let the wave after wave of the rhythmic cries wash over her. There was no one else there. Just like at the hospital, nobody could do this for her. Nobody else could be this child's mother.

Still wearing nothing but a bra and sweatpants, she tiptoed out into the hall and around the corner. She peered over the edge of the crib; Grace paused long enough to give her mother an accusatory gaze, and Mel was immediately contrite. Grace was so innocent, just a baby overwhelmed by the vast and unfamiliar world around her, and powerless to do anything to ensure her own survival.

Despite her years on sabbatical, at her core, Mel was still a hunter. Hunters saved people – despite their fear, despite their sacrifice, despite the injustice and unfairness of it all – and right now, the person that needed saving was the tiny human writhing in need before her.

"It's okay…" Mel whispered, still several feet away. "…mo –" she choked on the word. After swallowing and taking a step forward, "Momma's here." She reached one hand in first, stroking her daughter's face and humming a lullaby. Grace leaned into her touch, but sounded louder than ever. Slowly, delicately, Mel scooted her other hand behind Grace's downy head.

She took a deep breath and rested Grace's head on her bare shoulder. The child's cries were muffled against her skin as she continued to sing the slow, melancholy tune – comforting herself as much as the babe in her arms. She naturally swayed back and forth in time with the song, and with the comfort of her mother's love and steady thrum of her heart, the gentle motion rocked the infant back to a state of contentment.

Mel didn't want to risk upsetting the girl again, so instead of trying to put her down, she walked over to the couch and – ever so slowly – lowered herself down to a sitting position, leaning back slightly so Grace could rest against her chest. She really was beautiful; pouty lips, little turned up nose, a swath of blond hair, and a pair of eyes that put Disney princesses to shame.

The tears were once again flowing, partially out of guilt for running from her responsibility to this child, but mostly out of the love Mel was so afraid to feel for the consequence of a past mistake. She was still terrified – that she would do something wrong, that she wouldn't be enough – but she guessed that all mothers felt that way.

They both must have dozed off for a bit, exhausted from the emotional turmoil, because Mel awoke with a start to a loud crash as the front door was nearly blown off its hinges. Grace – unhappy about being startled awake – scrunched up her face and her little chin began to quiver.

"Shh, shh. Please don't cry, baby," Mel whispered, stroking and gently kissing the top of her head. Still uncertain, Grace began to breathe erratically and make sounds similar to a mewing kitten. Out of the corner of her eye, Melissa could make out a long, tan trenchcoat wreaking havoc near the front entrance. "Jesus Christ, Cas. I thought angels prided themselves on being neither seen nor heard," she teased, though with an edge of genuine anger. After all, it was never good to wake a sleeping baby.

"I… I am sorry," Cas murmured, staggering through the unexpected sea of baby toys and deadly weapons.

"Cas – are you alright?" she asked, noting the way he was doubled over, clutching his side. The angel then collapsed on the nearest piece of furniture with a thud and a scrape as the couch ground a few inches to the side against the wood floor.

"I may require some assistance," he responded, the sound muffled as his face was buried in throw pillows. Mel was frozen in shock and indecision until Cas groaned, a dark liquid blossoming on his normally pristine attire.

"Shit," Mel muttered, hurrying over to the wounded angel.

"How bad?"

Mel knelt down and pushed his torn shirt aside. A deep, angry gash was weeping blood, which began to form a little puddle on the leather sofa. "Well if this doesn't kill you, Dean sure as hell will for what you're doing to his favorite couch," she joked, trying to make light of the situation. Cas, bless his soul, tried to smile, but it morphed into a wince as he hissed in pain. "Can't you just, like, heal yourself?" she asked the obvious question.

"Under normal circumstances, yes. However, I've run into a bit of trouble and am 'out of juice' as you might say." Melissa frowned. "Long story."

"Don't move. I'll be right back." Melissa had been out of the hunting life for quite some time, but old habits quickly took over. Growing up, Mel had participated in patching up wounds from pretty much any weapon you could think of – knives, guns, stakes… even a crossbow or two. She scurried through the kitchen, bathrooms, and closets to gather the back-alley surgery supplies she'd need to stitch the angel back together again.

Grace had been silently watching the flurry of activity with fascination from her mother's arms. Melissa had almost forgotten she was holding her until she got on her knees to stitch up Cas… which required two hands. "Oh. Hmm…" she mumbled, unsure of what to do with the child while she worked. "Can you just… for a minute…?" Mel asked, holding out her daughter. She didn't exactly wait for Cas to respond before nestling the girl in the crook of his elbow – on his good side, of course.

Melissa dabbed at his wound with antiseptic as delicately as she could, but Cas still flinched and groaned, low and deep. She had expected her daughter to cry upon leaving her arms, especially when the large and unfamiliar man on whom she rested would practically growl in pain, but instead she simply watched her mother with interest as Mel dabbed and pinched and pierced and knotted, more practiced and meticulous than someone who had actually gone to medical school.

She had been so focused on her work, and Grace had been unusually content, that it wasn't until she looked up from closing the last of the sutures that Mel realized both of her charges had fallen fast asleep. Cas was snoring softly, his chest rising and falling at about half the rate of the infant sleeping on top of it. Maybe it was Castiel's presence, or maybe that Grace was finally resting and at peace, but for the first time, the little girl that had caused such turmoil and confusion didn't seem so scary. Of course, that feeling couldn't last.

Melissa ran the water and reached shaking hands toward the delicate stream. The angry red stains that marred her delicate fingers brought forth a torrent of painful memories; She began to scrub – so hard that her raw skin was almost as red as when she'd begun – but the pain she was inflicting in the present was not enough to combat that of the past. her muscles locked in place, and her chest constricted to the point that she feared she'd suffocate. Her breaths came in shallow rasps as wave after devastating wave brought her to her knees.

"_Tell me."_

"_Go to hell!" Melissa screamed, thrashing around bur remaining pinned beneath his iron grip. He backhanded her across the face._

"_Tell me. Or you end up like herrr," her purred softly, gesturing with his blade to the other occupant of the bed – a girl, younger than Mel, cold and unnaturally pale, whose alabaster skin stood in stark contrast to the bright crimson line that stretched from one side of her throat to the other._

_Melissa glanced toward the girl, then away in shame – she was a hunter; she'd faced vampires and ghosts and gods, and she couldn't even save one human from another._

"_Now. Tell me…" he coaxed, leaning in and dragging his tongue up her cheek, tasting her tears and enjoying her fear. Mel took the opportunity to turn her face to the side and bite down as hard as she could on whatever she could._

_Coppery warmth filled her mouth as the monster on top of her clutched at his bottom lip, which was now ripped in half. He landed a blow across her temple that caused stars to burst across her vision, and before she could recover he had flipped her over onto her stomach, onto the other side of the bed, onto the dead girl that she'd been unable to save._

_Suddenly Melissa was drowning in blood – her captor's, the girl's, her own. She got her hands under her chest enough that she could push her torso up just a little, just enough to keep from suffocating. Unfortunately, the blood was still new, still slick, and her hands slid around in it and failed to keep her face out of the drenched sheets._

"_Oh you are a feisty one, aren't you?" he asked, both amused and furious; the words were slurred and distorted by his mangled bottom lip. "I think I'll keep you… alive… just a little longer." Mel was still struggling to obtain enough oxygen to remain conscious, so she missed the metallic clang as he undid his belt buckle. "Then you'll tell me… beg me, even, I think." He wrenched up the dress he'd put Melissa in upon her capture and paused just outside her entrance, leaning in close. "…to kill you," he finished, laughing maniacally as he thrusted into her._

_Whatever fight she had left was lost as she screamed; she screamed until there was no air left in her lungs, and even then her face remained contorted in a mask of pain. She soon prayed for death – prayed, but refused to beg, and as such, was given no such mercy._

Melissa didn't know who had started wailing first, herself or her daughter, but it was Grace's cries that brought her back from the depths of her trauma. As a testament to how exhausted he must have been, Cas remained unmoving as the child on top of him twisted and screeched.

More out of instinct than a conscious decision, Mel reached out to cradle the ailing child. Just before she settled Grace in her arms, a flash of red smeared against her newborn skin caused her to gasp and she nearly dropped the girl. She was sure that the blood was Cas's, that Grace had just flailed her little arm against his soiled coat, but the flashback was still so fresh in her mind, this child the result of that incident.

It was too much. Mel laid Grace onto the floor and climbed up in a chair, lifting her feet off the ground and hugging her knees into her chest, like a child afraid of the boogeyman under their bed. Grace continued to kick her arms and legs furiously, her cries for attention falling on unwilling or unconscious ears.

Melissa rocked herself back and forth, squeezing her eyes shut and counting backwards from 100 in an attempt to avoid a complete breakdown. She heard a thud, followed by complete silence. Grace had stopped crying, and suddenly she was more afraid of what she had done than what had been done to her.

Her eyes flew open and she leapt out of the chair, only to find that Cas had rolled his injured self off the couch and had has large hand splayed across Grace's forehead. A blue light radiated from his palms, then dissipated as the newborn wrenched her soft head from his grasp. She was momentarily distracted by that hand, which the angel kept using to generate and extinguish the fascinating holy light.

"She's hungry," he rasped, still entertaining the girl that had grabbed tightly to his thumb, which she was still too uncoordinated to guide to her mouth, though that didn't stop her from trying.

"Huh?" Mel was too taken off guard by the unexpected scene to comprehend what Cas had said. He made it look effortless, laying next to her on the floor, twisting his fingers in her grasp and cooing softly, though the pitch was comically deep; why couldn't she interact with her own child with such ease?

"The child wants food. It is why she's upset," he elaborated; coming from anyone else it would have sounded patronizing.

"Oh. Right, of course," Mel muttered before shuffling off to the kitchen to grab one of the pre-prepared bottles Dean had left for her in the fridge. When she returned to the living room, Cas had picked Grace up off the floor and stood rocking and making funny faces at her. She'd never seen the stoic angel act so whimsical, which only added to her guilt; even a warrior of heaven had a greater maternal instinct than her.

"I have been watching over humans for thousands of years," Cas said, taking the bottle from her and warming it with a swift flash from his hands before popping it into the infant's eager mouth. "You have only had to watch over this one for a few weeks." Now that Grace was happily sucking away, Cas finally looked up at Mel. "It will get easier."

She gave a half-believing smile, but he quickly averted his eyes and cleared his throat; if she didn't know any better, she would have sworn that the angel was blushing. It was then that Mel realized that she was still quite topless, torn between embarrassment at her indelicate exposure and pride that she was still able to elicit such a response after all her body had been through.

Mel padded off to her bedroom to throw on a thin sweater, which hung loosely from her thinning shoulders. Glancing at herself in the mirror on the way by, she barely even recognized herself. Her skin was sickly pale, cheeks sunken, hair and makeup a mess. She took half a minute to finger comb her hair before giving up and throwing it into a haphazard ponytail, then tried to swipe at the mascara under her eyes until realizing they were just the dark circles that had developed from too much worry and too little sleep.

"Well, guess this is as good as it's gonna get," she sighed, frowning at the sunken reflection staring back at her. She went back to the living room, where Grace had apparently finished her bottle and was fussing on Cas's shoulder. He was shushing her, but the sound was impatient and far from soothing.

"She much prefers the sound of your voice," the angel grumbled, still trying and failing to placate the squealing infant. "It is a very nice voice," he added quietly.

"How… how do you know?"

"I heard you singing earlier," he admitted.

"No, I mean how do you know she likes it?" she clarified, his compliment completely lost on the bewildered mother. Cas looked at her and raised his eyebrows. "Right… the whole angel spidey sense thing." His brows knit together in confusion at the pop culture reference. "Never mind."

Cas removed Grace from her position on his shoulder and passed her off to Mel, who was slightly startled by the sudden appearance of her daughter in her arms. Grace looked up at her, whining expectantly until Mel started singing the first thing that came into her head.

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound," she began, delighting in the soft smile that broke across Grace's face at the mention of her own name in the song. "That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost," she continued, grabbing one of her daughter's tiny fists and placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles, "but now am found. Was blind, but now I see."

Castiel was moved by the scene in front of him. Melissa Winchester was young and broken and afraid and… beautiful; more angelic than any of his sisters in heaven, singing such hallowed words to the innocent that had been conceived out of hate and borne out of love. It was then that he noticed her trembling – out of joy, guilt, pain, hope… perhaps all of them. Worried that she was unsteady and might collapse – at least that's the excuse he'd given himself – Cas added gentle support with his palms beneath her elbows.

She had expected to recoil from the physical contact; it had been her automatic reaction when anyone tried to touch her. Instead of the usual anxiety and mistrust, it was as if a calm warmth was spreading through her. He wasn't using his angel powers – evident by the fact that his hands remained firmly non-glowy; it was only Cas, and Mel was terrified of what that might mean.

Grace must have felt the tension dissipate, replaced by peace and comfort, because her eyes blinked twice, slowly, then drifted closed. Using that as an excuse, (and suddenly unable remember the words to any more of the verses), Mel switched to humming the soft melody of the hymn.

Just as she was trying to figure out the least insensitive way to extricate herself from Castiel's embrace, several expressly non-invited bodies crashed through the door, startling Grace into a terrified cry. In an instant, before any of the occupants of the house could get their bearings, four angel blades were pressed threateningly against various vital portions of their anatomy.

"Hand over the child, and no one else has to die."


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm sorry, what did you just say to me?" Melissa hugged Grace closer to her chest, as if shielding her from view would shield her from their wrath.

"The child must die. Give her to us, and we will spare your mortal life, and maybe even your fallen angel's." Mel looked from him to Cas, who looked more resigned than surprised. Did he know what was going on here?

"Formerly fallen," Cas corrected. The angel had recently gotten his grace back, which would have been a good advantage to use to take them by surprise, but Cas was never the master of subtlety or humility.

"Who even are you people?" A hunter's best chance at survival was always being the person in the room that knew the most, and at the moment, she didn't know a damn thing.

"I am an angel of the Lord."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the sales pitch. But who are _you_? What threat could a newborn possible pose to heaven's most feared warriors?" Cas, having been around humans much longer, smirked at her tone, though the mockery was lost on its intended recipients.

"His name is Atripose," Cas supplied with a grimace.

"What makes you think you are worthy to even mutter my name, traitor?"

"What do you want with the girl, Atripose," Cas said, relishing the anger the boiled in the other angel as he spat his name in distaste.

"She is Prophet of the Lord, Castiel," Atripose hissed, putting an equal amount of venom in his address.

Cas cocked a head to the side, either unsurprised or unfazed by the claim. "That is not grounds for elimination." He took a step closer to the blade aimed at his heart and squinted. "In fact, as I recall, the Prophets were respected, even revered in heaven. Hand-picked by God himself."

Atripose ground his teeth together as the guards flanking him looked between each other in doubt. "That was the old heaven, Castiel – the one you set a match to and then walked away from." Cas seemed to shrink in stature – hunching over and drawing in on himself – but never broke eye contact. "The balance of power is tenuous, and she could wreak havoc in heaven and on earth." Atripose nodded to Melissa and the squirming babe in her arms. "Do not make the same mistake twice, brother."

At that point, Cas lowered his blade and moved out of the way. Was he giving up? Letting these monsters kill a baby just because they felt threatened? "Can we all just take a breath here?" Melissa urged, taking a few unsteady steps back.

"Only if it is her last," Atripose warned, moving the point of his blade in Grace's direction and taking a few steps in pursuit.

Mel didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. On the one hand, she had never wanted to be a mother in the first place. There was a time when this would have been exactly what she wanted – a way to end it all without being the instigator, without feeling guilty. And yet, she already felt guilty, every second of every day – for the confusion, for the indecision, for the overwhelming exhaustion. And so she was surprised at the conviction and deadly clarity with which she spoke her next words.

"You will not touch a hair on my daughter's head."

Cas whipped his head in her direction. He'd never seen Melissa in full-on scary hunter mode, and it both fascinated and terrified him, snapping him out of whatever cycle of doubt and regret Atripose had thrown him into. His blade sliced deeply into the angel guarding his left, but the other two were on him quickly as Atripose went after his target.

Mel sprinted across the bunker, making it to the dining room before a hand shot out and wrenched her shoulder, spinning her around to face her attacker. He raised his blade in a dramatic move that was more powerful, but slower, giving Mel enough time to whip out the small knife that the boys always kept hidden under the table. Her muscle memory was good, and before he could take a swing, she crouched down and used the force of her legs and hips to bury the blade deep into his stomach, ducking around his lethal strike. Atripose roared, more furious than injured, and shifted the momentum of his sword to follow after the fleeing girl.

Mel was fast, but not fast enough to completely escape his wrath. Pain exploded across her side, followed by a sickening warmth that glued her loose sweater to her skin and rubbed against the smooth, raw cut every time she moved. She fell forward, wrenching out her free arm to shield Grace from being slammed into the ground; the move caused her shoulder to pop out of place and she cried out as the pinched nerve sent sharp prickles up and down her arm.

Still on the ground, Mel used her legs to scoot across the slick stone floor and closer to where Cas was busy fighting the other three warriors. "Cas!" she cried, very aware of her vulnerability as she was currently on the floor and without the use of either of her arms. The way Atripose was stalking toward her, she knew that he knew it too. He was getting closer, once again raising his sword over his head in that classic avenging angel stance.

In one last desperate move, Mel spun around and kicked the wall, propelling her and Grace toward and under the solid oak desk. The angel followed after them with one giant leap, never pausing in his killing blow. The desk exploded with a thundering crash as it collided with the heavenly blade, splintering shards of metal and glass and wood in every direction. Mel covered Grace with as much of her small frame as she could and screamed as a thousand small tears opened up across her skin in an instant. She crawled across the debris on the floor until she found a wall, slipping and stumbling to a standing position, though the wall was lending most of the support.

"Now I'm not an unreasonable being. My offer still stands." Atripose swiped at the blood that tainted an otherwise impeccable silver blade. "Give us the Prophet, and you can walk away with your life. Go back to being a lawyer. Have a normal life."

Tears sprang to her eyes; the angel was good, she had to give him that. But as Mel looked down, into the terrified and bewildered eyes of the daughter that had no idea what was going on, had no idea what she was, had no choice in her circumstances, she knew – even if the angels succeeded, she could never go back to her old life. She smiled at Grace, who offered a confused and hesitant smile in return. "You are my life now," she vowed.

Before Atripose could wind up for another blow, Cas whipped out from behind him and wrapped his arms around Mel and Grace; all three disappeared from the bunker in an instant.

First there was pain as Cas squeezed his arms around her bruised and battered body, though the sensation was oddly softened by the comfort and protection his embrace offered. Then there was a sense of falling, like when your stomach falls from the top of a roller coaster, and then they were gone. All too soon, the angel's arms had released her and Mel was left to remain upright by her own strength.

"Cas," she said, nearly a whisper, as he paced back and forth in the empty parking lot, mumbling incoherent and half-formed thoughts. "Castiel," she repeated, more firmly but at the same hushed volume – it was all she could conjure at the moment.

The angel paused mid-stride and looked up, as if just realizing he was not alone. Mel's pulse was racing and suddenly the night air was stifling – too warm, wet – and her shallow breaths began to match the pace of her frantically beating heart. They say that when you're about to pass out that your vision fades and goes slowly black, but it's just the opposite – it's jarring, the world becoming too bright, like walking out of a dark movie theater into the midday sun.

She was cognizant enough to remember the baby in her arms, and sank carefully to her knees, one at a time; more harm is done by falling to the ground than any restricted blood supply to the brain. This bought her a few more seconds of consciousness – enough for Cas to snap out of whatever guilt trip he'd sent himself on.

"You're –" he began to state the obvious, rushing over. Mel held Grace out as far as she could, which was only a couple inches. In half a second, her arms were weightless, empty. The last thing she remembered was warmth – pleasant at first, starting from her core and radiating outward until it burned like a hot iron at every point of injury, eventually peaking and dissipating back to the comforting warmth. Castiel had healed her.

When Mel awoke, she found herself lying in a motel room just like the hundreds she'd found herself in back when she was a hunter. She could hear Grace crying somewhere in the room, and rolled over to find her strapped in a car seat on the floor next to the bed. The moment she laid eyes on her mother, Grace stopped crying; she was still frowning – not exactly thrilled to have been a prisoner trapped in such tight restraints – but was pacified by the attention, satisfied that her cries had been acknowledged.

Mel rubbed at her eyes and looked at the clock; she'd been out for almost an hour. "I'm so sorry, baby," she said, offering her index finger to Grace, who promptly stuck it in her mouth and began chewing on it. There was a hastily scrawled note on the bedside table that read:

_Melissa –_

_I am sorry for the trouble I have brought to you and your daughter. I was the one that led Atripose and his guard to your location. I shall not make the same mistake again. Find Sam and Dean – it is better if, at the moment, I do not know where. They will protect you until I can find a more effective ward against the angels._

_Take care,_

_C._

Great. Left in the middle of god-knew-where with a newborn and a host of angels on her ass. Mel was just about to mutter some less than holy prayers to her guardian angel when she noticed a car key glinting on the small table by the door.

"Aha!" she cried in victory, looping the metal key ring around her finger and pulling the curtains aside a hair. She pressed the "lock door" button a few times until her gaze fell on a generic black sedan, almost invisible in the back left corner of the parking lot. "How 'bout it, Gracie?" she asked the infant, who stuck her lip out at the woman who'd taken away her teething implement. "Whaddaya say we go find your uncles?"

The actual hunt had gone quite well for Sam and Dean – as textbook as they come; guy goes suicidal after finding out about his cheating wife, comes back pissed off enough to exact revenge on her lover and, if Sam and Dean hadn't intervened, the widow herself. The case was simple; instead, it was the (now near-constant) chiming of their cell phones that had set them both on edge. First Dean's would ring, then Sam's when he didn't pick up, then Dean's again; sometimes there would be a short pause, but it would always start again.

During a slow moment as they were consoling the widow, distracting her from the pile of bones smoldering in her backyard and making up some BS explanation about weather patterns turning people psycho, Dean snuck away and began listening to the thousands of voicemail messages left by the sister he'd abandoned.

"_Dean? Are you guys alright? Sam's not picking up either. Call me." _Urgent, but not hysterical.

"_Did something happen? I swear, if you two are off cradle-robbing at some dive bar somewhere…" _Concerned, but definitely some anger starting to seep in there.

"_Why do you even have these goddamn things if you never fucking answer!" _Pissed. Definitely pissed off now.

"_Damnit, Dean, pick up! Where are you guys? Pleeeease call m–" _The message was interrupted as Sam snatched the phone away from his ear and closed it with a soft click.

"What the hell, Sammy! Give that back!" Dean grabbed for his phone, but Sam tossed it in the air, attempting and failing to catch it behind his back. It clattered to the floor, the screen cracking with a decisive crunch as Sam's left heel dug into the thin glass. Dean growled in frustration at his younger brother, narrowing his eyes as he picked up the damaged device. When the screen lit up again, he tried to answer, but none of the buttons would respond to his touch. "If someone's dead, I'm blaming you," he husked, standing on the balls of his feet to glare at Sam at eye level before stalking back in the direction of the Impala.

The old muscle car rattled into the parking lot and clunked to a stop at an inconsiderate distance over the designated lines of the space – not that there was much competition at the nearly empty motel, which is why he happened to notice a black sedan that had most certainly not been there before. Dean quickly glanced around the perimeter of the crumbling Super 8, noting the absence of light in all the rooms besides their own.

Dean tugged on Sam's shoulder before he got out of the car, pointing between the inconspicuous vehicle and their room. Sam shrugged and rolled his eyes – how stupid would an attacker have to be to, in an otherwise vacant motel, park right outside their room and turn on their light and wait for them?

Still on edge, Dean prepared to enter the room like a cop on a drug bust – crouched low, gun drawn, eyes darting around. He kicked in the door with such unnecessary force that it swung wide and slammed into the opposing wall, the handle wedged firmly in a new knob-shaped opening in the drywall.

Melissa, having heard her less than stealthy brethren coming from a mile away – god, how did they sneak up on anyone with that roaring beast of a vehicle? – didn't even flinch. She was sitting on the bed with her back against the wall, knees bent with little Grace nestled on her stomach and in the dip between her thighs. Sam settled on a look of resigned disappointment, while several emotions flashed across Dean's face – surprise, relief, confusion, concern.

"Mel," he rasped, holding his hands out and taking a tentative step toward her, approaching like you would a frightened animal that might flee if you moved too quickly. "Where's Grace? Where's your little girl?"

She furrowed her brow and cocked her head before realizing that her legs and the angle must have blocked their view of Grace from the door. Her confusion then turned to anger – did they really think she would just up and take off? Sure, there were times she got overwhelmed, didn't know what to _do_ for her child, but in all those instances she was never so selfish as to abandon the newborn. And she was quite offended, if not hurt, that they believed her capable of doing so.

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes and a knot formed in her throat, and suddenly she could no longer look her brother in the eye. "Hey, it's gonna be alright," Dean tried to soothe her, though he was visibly tense and the wheels were already turning in the back of his mind – Where could she be? Where would she have left her? Maybe Cas knows. Maybe Cas is lookin' after her. Shoulda answered that damn phone the second it rang…

When Dean finally reached her side and saw his niece, enthralled watching mommy play with her toes, he slunk onto the bed; all the tension was released from his shoulders and he slumped forward, resting his forehead on one of Mel's bent knees and curling his index finger into Grace's tiny palm.

"How did you find us?" Sam asked, still standing on the other side of the room, equal parts irritated by her codependence and impressed by her tenacity.

"Well when no one answered their damn _phones_," she drawled sweetly, "I hacked into your GPS and pulled into the first motel that was one small step above 'crack house'." She narrowed her eyes at the taller Winchester. "The girl at the front desk remembered you _real_ well." Sam glanced away – was he blushing? "Wasn't too thrilled when I came lookin' for you with this little one," she teased, taking far too much pleasure in ensuring that her older brother would most definitely not get laid that night.

At this point, Sam scoffed and joined Dean on the opposite side of the bed, enticing Grace to grab his finger with her other flailing fist; it took a few tries, but he smiled with pride when she finally clung to it in triumph. "What happened to your clothes?" he asked, gesturing to the gaping crimson shreds that used to pass for her favorite sweater.

Dean took in a comically dramatic gasp, having been in such close proximity without ever noticing that she looked like hell – more than usual, anyway. "What happened? Are you hurt? Who did this? Is Gracie okay?" He began asking a thousand questions, not waiting for answers to any of them as he tugged and twisted every hole, his frown deepening with every non-wound that didn't need tending to.

"Cas." Mel couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corner of her lips as they formed the name of the angel that saved her. Dean grunted with discontent – the son of a bitch was supposed to watch over her, protect her… not put her life in danger.

"So Cas… healed you?" Sam asked, still trying to piece together what had happened. She nodded. "But then… who sliced you up in the first place?" The question may have come off as indelicate or insensitive, but his anger was not directed toward the people in that room. His relationship with Melissa may not have the same strength as the one he'd forged with Dean through the countless trials of the hunting life, but she was still his little sister, damnit, and someone had tried to kill her!

Melissa frowned and wrinkled her nose. "Angels," she hissed, hanging onto the "s" longer than necessary.

"Dicks," Dean added unhelpfully. "They still there?" he asked, wringing his hands together and itching for a fight after finally being offered a target for all the tension and frustration that had been building ever since he'd left the bunker.

Whereas Dean had jumped straight to physical violence mode, Sam preferred to think through things in the more neutral researcher mode. "Okay, but what put you on their hit list?" he asked; surely the Winchesters that still played the hunting game were much more likely targets.

She shook her head. "Not me," she rasped, the knot in her throat making it difficult to speak. Dean had stopped listening – busy berating himself for inadvertently putting his sister and niece in mortal danger – and Sam furrowed his brow in uncomprehension. Mel sat up and crossed her legs, laying her daughter face up in the center of the bed.

"No," Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, they wouldn't. Well… they would, but why would they?" Mel stared down at Grace, watched her undeveloped neck muscles work furiously as she took turns staring at each of the large humans looming over her. Sam was scanning through a mental catalogue of possible scenarios when a horrifying thought occurred to him. "Melissa – Grace… is she…?" He paused, trying to find a delicate way to phrase the question weighing on his mind and dreading the state into which it might send his sister. "Who is her father?" Mel flinched and her jaw clamped shut, but did not appear to withdraw and regress at the mention of the circumstances surrounding Grace's conception, so he pressed further. "Is he… Mel, was he… something… we would hunt?"

Mel had never divulged the details of her ordeal to him, and Sam had never asked; not that he didn't care, but she had never asked him to talk about his time in Hell, so why would he insist that she talk about hers?

She clenched tufts of the thin bedspread in a vice-like grip, trembling and taking ragged breaths and for a moment, her skin bristled with the memory of his hands on her, gliding up her torso and lubricated by the warm, slick gore in which they laid. Before she could fall too far down the rabbit hole, Grace's little foot kicked out into her shin and Mel released her hold on the comforter. She reached out and started counting her tiny toes, pinching each one between her thumb and index finger and giving it a little wiggle before moving onto the next; when she was done with toes, she moved onto fingers, slowly and methodically singling each one out, one to ten. By the time she had exhausted every countable part of Grace's anatomy – right down to the number of wrinkles in her chubby legs – she had calmed down enough to speak.

"Human." Her voice was shaky, but definitive.

Sam puffed out a breath in relief – both at her answer and the fact that he hadn't pushed her into another crippling depression. He was actually a little impressed; her soul was starting to heal, and Grace was a big part of that. "Then _why_?" he continued prodding, hoping to keep her mind firmly rooted in the present dangers instead of dwelling on those of the past.

"They called her a Prophet of the Lord; claimed she could upset the balance of power and wreak havoc on the heavenly realms, blah blah blah," she recited, mimicking the overly formal and haughty tone Atripose had used. "You wouldn't wreak havoc on the heavenly realms, would you?" she cooed at Grace.

Dean had been so busy stewing in guilt and self-loathing that he had missed most of the preceding conversation, but his ears pricked up at this last bit of information. "I'm sorry, did you just call your daughter, my niece, a Prophet of the Lord?"

"That's what they called her. Dean?"

"Like… Prophet, with a capital "P"?" He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin, moving up the lines of his face to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know… Dean, what does that mean? Why does it matter?" Cleary, her brothers knew more than she did about her daughter's situation.

Sam turned to his brother. "I thought Metatron killed off all the Prophets."

"Well maybe he didn't know about this one; she wasn't even born yet, Sammy."

"Excuse me," Mel tried to interject, but they continued to chatter and speculate amongst themselves.

"Maybe. That would certainly make her a target – and not just for the angels."

"Damnit, the demons could be after her too, if they know about her. The last Prophet."

"Even if they didn't before…"

"Word's bound to spread…"

"EXCUSE ME!" she shouted from the middle of the bed, her glare alternating between the two of them. "Could someone please explain to me what a Prophet is, how my daughter became one, and what exactly that means for us?" Her hands were otherwise occupied by a newborn, but her tone suggested that, in spirit, they rested impatiently on her hips.

"I believe I can answer that," Cas gruffed from the door, causing everyone else to jump in surprise. His eyes softened as they landed on Mel and Grace. "It means your daughter has been blessed with many gifts that will give her great power… and also condemn her to a life of constant danger and, likely, an early and unpleasant death."


End file.
